


The Iron Dragon

by Gotcocomilk



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Iron Bull, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon of Silence - Freeform, Like the Old Tevinter God Dumat, Literally this is a fic wherein Iron Bull is Dumat, M/M, Old God! Iron Bull, Slow Burn, Who needs Mythal when you got a better dragon?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gotcocomilk/pseuds/Gotcocomilk
Summary: The Iron Bullwas not the most fitting of titles— really, he should have chosenThe Iron Dragon— but he grew to like it. Attached, even, to the mortal name for his mortal life. It was certainly less conspicuous thanDumat. He was not happy— not with his siblings corrupted and dead, sickened with the horrors of the Blight— but he was content.And then the sky was torn asunder.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Small (well, large but relatively unimportant) changes to canon— Dumat was not the Archdemon of the first blight (or he’d be hella dead, which is problematic for this story :p). Also, playing fast and loose with the actual mythos of the Tevinter Old Gods. This plot bunny would not die, so hang on for the absolutely crack-y ride.  
> 

He had awoken to a tomb of pulsing blue stone. All around was rock, and all was alive.

 

He had not made a sound— this was fitting. Silence was his call, emptiness his purpose.

 

He had felt nothing— no sound from his siblings, no gentle press against his mind. This was unsettling— this particular emptiness not to his liking. He searched— twisting in his living tomb, scales scraping against blue rock and making no sound, swallowed by his silence.

 

But they were _gone_. He reached farther, and felt a horrible, corrupting darkness— no quiet here, but the hiss of depravity, monstrous and dripping with the blood of the Golden City. Recoiling, he flicked open large eyes, settling his awareness back into his body.

 

What had happened during his slumber? What beast dared make such a repulsive noise?

 

_Where were they?_

 

He clawed his way to the surface, steady as a newborn lamb. The blue stone was protective and sapping— cocooned around him to keep him in slumber— humming with a Titan’s lullaby. Each press into the rock felt more exhausting than the last.

 

This was unacceptable. He was not weak, no matter the shaking of his body under the weight of so much _sound_. No stone god would stop him.

 

His limbs trembled as he hauled his body up, up, up and out of the embrace of the Stone. As sun hit his scales, he shifted. His Avatar was as it always was— a titanic facsimile of a mortal, with horns to mark him as the Dragon of Silence, skin as ashen as his scales. He was bare, but the ground was warm. He felt the press of mortal minds to the North, cacophonous and needy.

 

It was there he would head—clearly, they needed to learn the value of silence.

 

* * *

 

It was fitting— so very fitting, in the face of all that had gone wrong— that the first mortals he encountered tried to kill him. Mages with robes of the old priests, hurled curses and spells at him with equal finesse— that is to say, very little. He brushed both off, crushed their throats to ensure they stayed quiet, and left. He took no pleasure in their deaths, but there was little to be done, not when they had raised a voice against him.

 

The encounter was unsettling— they should have recognized this form, bowed before him, and given him their silence. They had not, instead calling him by an unfamiliar title. Something was very wrong. Too much time had passed since he was forced into sleep, and Thedas had _changed._ His siblings were gone, the world too loud.

 

Perhaps it was finally time to break his silence.

 

He did question though— what the blazes was a Qunari?

 

* * *

 

He appreciated the Ben-Hassrath for their knowledge of silence. No need for names, only titles. No need for conversation, only orders. No need for idle chatter, only carefully chosen words. Everyone had a place— everything, a reason. The Qun was a religion of efficiency, and efficiency was blessedly muted. Joining them was no hardship— especially with the pleasure the conditioning of a convert brought. The weakness haunting his steps lightened with each mind brought to calm— made quiet and purposeful.

 

His loyalty was not _truly_ with the Qun, but it was not with anyone— he was chief among the gods. Any ties to the mortal world had disappeared with his last High Priest and the destruction of the Choir of Silence.

 

But the information— the knowledge the Ben-Hassrath gave him— was _disquieting_. His siblings, dead or in the use of this _blight_. His pantheon, sealed and corrupted and blamed for _all of it_. Only Razikale remained, and she was the Dragon of Mystery— he had no hope of finding her if she did not want to be found.

 

He was alone, and for once, his silence did not comfort him.

 

* * *

 

He did wonder at the appearance of the Qunari, though. They looked so like his Avatar— had a dalliance with a mortal resulted in offspring? He could not remember. He’d taken mortal partners— spent nights taking apart their composure, unfurling them gently and indomitably— but they had not mentioned such a thing to him. But why would they? It would just be swallowed in his silence.

 

* * *

 

He had not expected to gain a friend, of sorts, but he could not have accounted for Krem. The mortal stood tall and proud— mouth moving, but mind quiet and calm as ice.

 

It was this stillness that drove him forward, made him take the blow, spill a god’s blood across a tavern floor. An Avatar’s eye was a small price to pay to keep this silence alive. That he gained a follower from it— a devotee, for the first time in a thousand years— well, that was a happy coincidence. Krem spoke, yes, quick and clever, but it was manageable. Unproblematic, even— he had grown accustomed to the mortal world, with the constant clamor of speech. His silence had grown strong in the fortress of the Qun— it could once again bear the strain.

 

The rest of the Chargers were equally accidental, but no less welcome. Their teasing— insubordinate and yet so loyal— reminded him of his siblings. He laughed with them, drank with them, healed with them, broke his silence with them—

 

They were his to hoard. They helped shape his purpose, this new mortal persona, his escape from a lonely new existence. He still mourned— how could he not? — but he also _lived_.

 

Their presence had forced him to choose a name— those outside of the Qun needed one. _The Iron Bull_ was not the most inconspicuous of titles for a spy, but well; it was better than _Dumat_.

 

 


	2. A Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning this fic to have consistent-- but not scheduled-- updates. Figure every two-ish weeks. I adapted some dialogue from canon, and likely will continue to do so. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments on the last chapter-- they gave me life. :D

_First among the Old Gods was Silence._  
_His least whisper could end wars or topple Archons._  
_A single word could turn recrimination into glory._  
_The sacred fires of his temple burned_  
_Rare incense, and the trees of Arlathan, and lapped at the bones of slaves_  
_While his altars dripped with the blood of sacrifices that never dried._

_-Canticle of Silence 1:1-1:6_

 

 

The Iron Bull buried his war ax in the skull of the Tevinter mercenary and felt silence blossom. The sea sprayed salt into the air, but it did nothing to stop a grin from spreading across his face. His men were loud, war cries large in the air, but the quiet they spread was larger. The elf woman was efficient, darting in and out with the flash of sharp knives. Enemies fell in her wake, and her boots made no sound on the rocky sand. Bull approved.

 

The Herald of Andraste, he thought she’d been called. It was a call that had sounded across Thedas, whispered on street corners and into tankards, hollered by pilgrims and refugees. Bull spent a lot of time in taverns— he’d heard her title a thousand times, spoken quiet and worshipful.

 

That was another change that startled him— this new religion, widespread and _loud_.The Chant seared into his silence. It was a beacon of pain in the night, echoing across Fereldan, Orlais, and Nevarra. Even Tevinter— his home, his bastion, his tomb— was deafening.

 

They had tales too— stories of his imprisonment, his malice, his sweet words of blood. Did they not realize he had not broken his silence? Did they not _know_ him?

 

In another time, he would have rallied his siblings and brought quiet, blessed peace. He would have blanketed the world in his silence and held tight, crushed the words of this so-called Maker beneath his scaled belly.

 

But his siblings were gone, and the sky was rent asunder. No, the Breach was too immediate of a problem to put aside— it could tear the world in two, he well knew. And without a world, even his meagre new purpose would be lost. He wished he could simply tear the Veil to pieces— the block had not existed before his sleep, and it felt suffocating, like being covered with a thick sheath of magic. But that would just make this shit worse, with all likelihood.

 

This elf was the key— the thread to stich the Veil back together. Of this, The Iron Bull had no doubts— he could hear the magic crackling like lightening over her palm.

 

She hired the Chargers, as he thought she would. She also took a shine to him— he wasn’t surprised. There was a keen intelligence in her eyes, bright and quiet. She likely thought he’d be useful, intimidating and strong as his name-sake; the horns probably helped.

 

They always helped, drawing people to him in fear and attraction. Proud and long, the horns intimidated and _inspired_ in equal measure— as they were meant to.

 

She didn’t know how right she was.

 

As they walked away from the Storm Coast— mercenaries dead on the rocky shore behind, new alliances stretching out ahead— the Herald turned to Bull.

 

“Any other surprises in store for me?” Her voice was wry— humorous, even.

 

Bull had never been one to back down from a challenge.

 

“Well, I’m actually a dragon.” She raised an eyebrow, looking done with his shit. Bull knew he was going to like her already.

 

“Ah, yes, and I am the Dread Wolf, bane of the Evanuris.” Bull threw back his head and laughed, letting it echo through his silence.

 

The elven mage— Solas, was it?— twitched behind her.

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull stood, quiet as the grave, coated in a silence so deep and dark nothing could penetrate it. Above him glowed the gaping maw of the Fade, a void of swirling green.

 

It was beautiful, in its own way, mesmerizing and dangerous. Urthemiel would have appreciated it, flown around it, let it bask his scales in the perfect light. Had Bull woken but a few decades earlier, he could have. A massive fist clenched.

 

Too late, he was always too late. Too late to save his siblings, too late to stop Vasaad on that fateful day in Seheron. The things he could do if he was simply _there_ when he was needed!

 

A sigh shook him, and he sunk under it, horns heavy with old regrets. He had not come here to brood, as tempting as it always was. He was here to _mend_.

 

This was likely a fruitless effort— but he had to try.With a thought, he channeled his power up. Silence fell, and a column of twining white and black magic exploded around him. Tendrils grasped at the Breach, suffusing the edges in ancient magic. As the power rose and built, the Fade seemed to struggle, glowing more and more brightly.

 

Outside the reach of his silence was a cacophony of sound; screams and the pounding of running feet filling the air. He disregarded it— mortals, he could worry about later.

 

With narrowed eyes, he _pulled_. The edges of the hole fluttered under his assault, inching closer together until there was but a seam in the sky, too brilliant to look at.

 

But it would not _seal_. He could feel the Breach resisting— it had bowed under his power, but not broken. With a growl of frustration, he retreated. The tear in the sky snapped open, shining an angry green that seemed to pulse like a beating heart.

 

It was as he had thought— the Herald was the key to lock this door. And until it was locked, it could always be pushed open. 

 

With the slow and unfamiliar motions of frustration, he left, the ruins of the temple cold beneath him.

 

His feet fell silently, and he drifted past the Spymaster’s frantic guards— past the rush of people flooding up the mountain, panicked and determined in equal measure. They did not see him— he did not allow them to.

 

It was with no little fatigue that he sat before his tent, legs folding under him. A small noise sounded from his right— encroaching on his silence, but familiar and welcome. Krem dropped down beside him with little fanfare. The mortal was staring up at the ever-brighter Rift. Bull did not care to look— he knew his failure.

 

“So, Chief. That magic shite that just happened.” Bull grunted in reply, and despite his black mood felt some kindling of fond amusement. _Magic shite_ indeed— Bull had just bent enough power to level Fereldan and take out a good portion of the masked assholes in Orlais too.“You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

 

“I look like a mage to you, Krem?”

 

“No, your staff isn’t long enough.” Bull raised a brow; that wasn’t half bad.

 

“Funny, that’s not what I usually hear.” He flashed a toothy grin at Krem, and the mortal rolled his eyes. Bull still didn’t look at the sky.

 

“Still, thought you might know something.”

 

Krem was always too clever for his own good. It was lucky that he was under Bull’s protection, or that would have gotten him into trouble— already had, before Bull had stepped in.

 

“Whatever it was, it failed. There’s still a hole in the sky. Still have bloody _demons_ wandering around.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Is that all an Old God had come to?

 

“Gathered that from the open rift, Chief. Any chance it’ll work next time?” Krem’s voice was dry as dust.

 

“No.”

 

“Thought as much.” The mortal sighed, a harsh exhale that was eaten by Bull’s silence. Krem didn’t seem to notice— or maybe, he was simply used to it. The god let his gaze be dragged to the ground, head bowed low under the weight of his folly.

 

“Krem.”

 

“Yeah, Chief?”

 

“We’ll be sticking around for a while.”

* * *

 

The Iron Bull had to admit to some surprise when the Herald first sought him out in Haven. For all his godhood and glory, his purpose here was simple— smash things with a hammer when and where he was pointed. Eventually, perhaps, more of his talents would be useful— but not until they knew the enemy. His failed attempt at closing the Breach had made that abundantly clear. Unless the Inquisition proved itself incompetent, this was where he would stay.

 

So when the Herald— she who was eternally busy, blessed with Andraste’s holy nickers, one foot out of the fade— came to _chat_. Well, he was surprised.

 

And yet _,_ it was clear that she cared— deeply and resoundingly, loud in the cloud of his silence— about everyone in Haven, from the newest pilgrim to the freshest recruit.

 

Lavellan even cared about him, enough to strike up a conversation daily. At first, he was dismissive— she was friendly perhaps, but certainly had not yet proven her will. As the days wore on, he revaluated— her determination was clear. Unless she was going to write a book on the Qun, half this information was irrelevant. But why?

 

It certainly wasn’t desire— he’d seen her around Solas. There was no denying that attraction— on both sides.

 

It also wasn’t suspicion— there was an open curiosity in every question, polite but unending.

 

Three conversations into life in Seheron— and a few piercingly intelligent insights about leadership and the Qun— Bull realized it was genuine interest. The Herald was extending a gesture of friendship, reaching out a hand into the dark.

 

He did not regret taking that hand.

 

* * *

 

He recognized the wolf immediately, despite his too-weak aura and desperate howl. How Fen’Harel— rebel god, last seen across a battlefield mighty and _proud_ — had been stripped of power, The Iron Bull didn’t know. What he did know was that Solas was forsaken— packless, the rest of his pantheon gone. But the wolf did not recognize him, not even after Bull had waved a huge swath of power over Haven like red cloth before a bull. Which, now that he thought about it, was a _fantastic_ joke.

 

The Iron Bull said nothing—better to hoard knowledge, silent and potent, than to waste it.

 

Besides, he knew what it was to be alone. He knew the ache of loss, the gap in the soul left by millennia-long friendships. If the wolf needed quiet to mourn, Bull would damn well ensure he got it. His silence would swallow all of Haven, if need be.

 

* * *

 

Sera was… difficult for Bull to be around. He had no issue with her personally— no, she was a fine shot with a better sense of humor. One of the few in the camp who knew how to cut loose— who knew the _value_ of cutting loose. But she was constantly thinking, moving, making _noise_. Even his silence— back to its old ground-shaking power— shrank from that sound.

 

But she was also interesting, and Bull liked interesting, liked picking puzzles to pieces. He thought she’d fit well with his Chargers— not in the field— she couldn’t follow orders nearly well enough for that. But in the tavern, in Haven, relaxing? Yeah, she’d fit right in. So he put aside his discomfort, and invited her into the fold.

 

After one evening spent with Sera and Krem—in which they convinced him to tell some of his _juiciest_ stories, managed to get Blackwall to strip, and drunk Varric under the table until he was a gibbering mess of dwarf— he knew he could not regret the decision. The sheer _mayhem_ was unreal.

 

Maybe he could convince her to join in on No-Pants Fridays…

  

* * *

 

 

_“We still do not know what caused that burst of power! It is reckless to send the Herald out so soon.”_

 

_“We do not have a choice, Cassandra. Alexius will only meet with her.”_

 

_“Then we find another way or go to the Templars. This is too much of a risk.”_

 

_“Enough! I will go. It is the best path. We can’t afford to not take risks.”_

 

 

 

He was leaning back against the rough stone surrounding Haven when the Herald came back from Redcliffe. She looked tired and _wane_. Her mind was screaming, disquiet in a way it hadn’t been before. And yet, Cassandra and Solas— trailing behind the Herald— looked _fine._ Tired, yes, but not shaken.

 

Something had happened— something _bad_. Lavellan may be mortal, but her silence was strong, resolute and willful. What had shaken it?

 

Iron Bull needed to know.

 

A look and tilted chin drew her away from the attaché and towards him.

 

“Hey, how you doing?” He didn’t move from the wall, slouched and comfortable as he was. No need to alarm her with how shrilly her fear spoke to him.

 

Her lips thinned. “Not, not so good.” A sigh left her, and she deflated with the lost air. “I’ll tell you later, Bull. I have to report in.”

 

She began to trot away. Iron Bull stared— his original estimate was wrong. She wasn’t scared, she was _terrified_. And yet, still standing under the cacophony of all that fear. His respect for her jumped several notches.

 

“Tavern, later?” Bull called at her back. A preoccupied wave and a nod were his only reply.

 

 

Mere minutes later, a man rode toward the camp. He was no pilgrim, that was clear— the Tevinter cut of his robes would have given it away if his bubbling magic had not, bright and powerful as it was. No silence hung around him but a hurricane of witticisms and deep laughter.

 

 _Loud._ Too loud, by half. Iron Bull watched his approach, quiet and intent. A Tevinter mage in Haven— in _Fereldan_ — was an odd occurrence. Worth keeping an eye on, in case he tried to cause trouble. After Lavellan’s body language, more trouble was the last thing they needed.

 

The man glanced at him, eyes tracing up his body, lingering too long on his biceps and horns, before disappearing through the gate.

 

Well. That was certainly _interesting_. In the old Tevinter— back before his sleep, in the height of his pantheon’s reign— his Avatar was thought attractive, titanic and imposing in a way that excited most. The mages he’d encountered in this time, however, feared him— it was the Qunari influence, he knew. But he didn’t much care— he had plenty to take pleasure with. This Tevinter hadn’t looked with fear though, but with _desire._

 

He mentally relabeled the mage— worth keeping a _close_ eye on.

 

 

 

True to her word— or well, wave— the Herald met him at the tavern with a tankard already in hand. He took one look at her— half into her cups already, but with little joy— and herded her outside. It wouldn’t do morale any good to see the set of her shoulders, let alone hear this conversation. He steered her to the high rock overlooking the icy lake. It was quiet, the world muffled by the slow fall of snow. He flexed his silence out around them, a dense cloud that would keep their words to their ears only.

 

A white flake drifted across his vision before landing lightly on his shoulder. It turned to steam against his skin. Unbidden, words spilled from the Herald.

 

“Our enemy— this Elder One— is powerful. He conquered the world in less than a year.” Lavellen took a long drought of ale. “Controls demon armies.” Another gulp. “And _feeds_ people to red lyrium.”

 

She was silent for a long while— it was not a silence Bull appreciated. _Demons. Red lyrium. Darkspawn._ It made him want to hit something— could he resist that corruption? Would the Blight come for him, as it had his siblings? He’d sooner die than let it, but he doubted any here could kill him, if the madness took him.

 

 _Elder_ his fine grey ass. If Iron Bull didn’t have at least five millennia on the enemy, he’d eat his axe. No, he wouldn’t give in— he would _burn_ this corruption for what it had done to his pantheon— and take the so-called Elder One in the same breath.

 

“I don’t know if we can beat him, Bull.” Curse the future that had set a tremor into her voice.

 

“Giving up?” Bull bared his teeth, dragon sharp. “I hear there’s a nice corner of Fereldan where you can’t see the Breach through the trees— run there. Settle down. Ignore the problem— someone else will seal it, right?”

 

“No!” Her response was immediate, harsh. “No, I can’t leave.” Her hands clenched, small fingers white-knuckled around the tankard. “I have to help. I have a duty.” She paused. “Whether I wanted it or not.”

 

“Good. Keep that feeling. You’ll need it. And if you get really frustrated— try punching something. It always works for me.” Some of the tension bled from her shoulders, and precious moments of quiet passed.

 

“Thanks, Bull. But next time? Don’t test me, please.” Her eyes were sharp, lit by the eerie green glow of the mark. He stared at her, horned and massive, older than the very rock beneath their feet. She didn’t even blink. He knew then and there that she was the one who would _fix_ this. And she’d have the power of the First of the Old Gods behind her. They sat in silence— a silence of resolve, companionable and sure— until dawn broke.

 

 

In the next few days, Haven erupted in righteous anger and panic, as purposeless as a kicked hornet’s nest. Everyone and their mabari had an opinion on the rebel mages— and wanted it heard. The mages themselves were troublesome— loud and demanding and fearful. They strutted through Haven with badly hidden terror, equally expecting to be tended to and chained.

 

It was times like these he longed for his Choir of Silence. _They_ had known stillness, the power and gravitas it granted. It was a lesson long lost on these mages— they were frantic, spineless, whipped from a thousand years of servitude. They feared their own powers— this only made them weaker. The rebels couldn’t be trusted to be logical.

 

It was a mistake to give them their freedom, foolish and trusting in a way only the Herald could be. It was still her call— whether the others had realized or not, Lavellan was the leader of the Inquisition, increasingly making the hardest decisions. Bull wondered when Red, Cullen, and Josephine would drag their heads out their asses and declare her Inquisitor. He figured it might be a while.

 

Regradless, the Boss had made a call. They would stick to it. And the rebel mages _would_ close the Breach— Bull would see to it. But they certainly wouldn’t get any less annoying afterwards.

 

Equally bad, though in a different way, was Cassandra. For days, Cassandra beat every practice dummy in a thousand yards into submission. Bull wouldn’t lie— watching her shear a straw man in half with a single, silent, stroke was ridiculously arousing. Impressive, too, given her mortal frame. He idly wondered if she was as turned on as he was. That was probably impossible.

 

But still, her doubt was loud and grating. So was her grief— for the Divine, he guessed— but the doubt was louder right now. He could hear it in the clanking of her armor, the pacing of her feet—

 

It was distracting.

 

Eye turned skyward, he stretched his arms, rolling out the well-used muscle. There was only one thing for it, since he didn’t think she’d take a proposition too well at the moment— a well-timed retreat. With a nod to Krem, Bull wandered up into Haven proper, headed in the vague direction of Solas.

 

Though the wolf had yet to recognize him, Bull took some comfort in his presence— it was a small reminder of the past. Bull just wasn’t sure if Solas appreciated _his_ presence— their conversations usually got… heated.

 

Bull found him precisely where he always was— gazing up at the Breach with a pensive expression. A quick glance around came up with a surprise, though— the Tevinter mage from before was standing across the square, pointedly ignoring Iron Bull. Dorian Pavus, if the gossip was to be believed. Interesting, but not his purpose now.

 

“Iron Bull.” Solas gave Bull a measured nod as he approached. The mage’s silence had grown calmer since returning from Redcliffe. Its breadth was wider, its sound reassured. The loss was still there— he knew from experience it would never leave— but it was no longer a sharp aching tone. Good. 

 

“You think the mages are going to work?” Iron Bull stopped next to Solas, boots scuffing up the thin covering of snow. He too turned his eyes to the Breach. It was no less brilliant— or frustrating— than it had been when he tried to seal it. A low growl slipped out of his throat and was caught by his silence. Solas did not notice.

 

“They may. And at least they have their freedom now. That is something.” Solas turned cold eyes on him. “Better than under the Qun.” Bull nearly rolled his eye. Of course, the wolf would use the opportunity to bring this up. If only he knew who he was talking to— _what_ he was talking to.

 

“Last I checked, our mages weren’t burning down Par Vollen.” Solas opened his mouth to speak, but Bull raised a hand. “These mages do not know how to be free, Solas.”

 

“Then they will learn, as everyone must. You think Orlais and Ferelden would be better off under Qunari rule?” The wolf’s tone spoke of a trap about to be sprung. Good thing no trap could snare a dragon.

 

“I think most people everywhere have a system that works for ‘em. When that breaks, you fix it. The system here? It’s broken.” Bull dodged the question— the Qun had saved him, returned him to power, and he was thankful for that. That did not mean he agreed with all its tenets.

 

Solas did not accept that— Bull should have known he would not. The God of Rebellion would always support a revolution.

 

“Do not equivocate. Would we or would we not be better under the Qun?”

 

“It is not that simple, Solas. Some would be better, some would be worse.” He paused, before adding. “I was better. You’d be worse. But for some— the Qun is peaceful. Quiet.”

 

“Quiet?” He had taken Solas off guard, he could tell from the echoing of his silence— there was curiosity there. “That is not a word I would have used. Why not mindless?”

 

“A quiet mind is not an empty one— not always, anyway. Can’t speak for some of the nobles I’ve met.”

 

Solas huffed out a laugh at that, and Bull’s silence let it hang in the air. The tension was still there— it often was, after such a conversation— but it was muted. Bull thought he might even get the wolf to warm up to him, after a fashion.

 

“Bull.” He grunted in reply. “I think this spell will work.”

 

“Good to know, mage.”

 

Bull had no doubt it would— if only because he would be helping. He left Solas to his quiet— small and purposeful now— and walked toward the chantry. He nodded at Dorian as he passed, watching the mage’s eyes go wide with surprise. After a hesitant second, Bull got a nod in reply. He didn’t stop to talk— the mage’s silence was in turmoil. A recent betrayal, if memory served. Now was not the time.

 

Bull was sure to flex his back as he walked away though, a rippling wave of gray muscle. His silence happily ate the low swallow that earned.

 

He had a day or two before the attempt on the Breach— enough time to enact his plan. First things first— he needed to find the Chargers, and Dalish in particular. As much as she was definitely _not_ a mage, he was sure she could be persuaded to stand next to the rebel mages and hold up a walking stick. As long as she pointed it in the right direction, he could handle the rest.


	3. On blacken'd wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I treasure comments like a dragon hoards gold— they are… precious to me.

_The Old Gods will call to you,_   
_From their Ancient Prisons they will sing._   
_Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_   
_On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_   
_The First of My children, lost to night._   
_-Canticle of Silence 3:1-3:6_

 

The rebel mages stood around the square like a choir waiting for their conductor, quiet and ready, arrayed in a loose circle. Their robes shifted in a cold wind, swirling the snow around their feet into small whirlwinds of ice and magic. The sight was achingly familiar, and Bull drew his eye from it before he could begin to reminisce. Now was not the time for memory.

 

He was in a low corner of the square, behind Dalish, hand placed firmly on her shoulder. To an observer, it would look like a Captain giving words of encouragement, comforting and proud. None could see the magic filtering through a large palm and sinking into her skin.

 

The power he was channeling her was hidden in her own, blanketed by his silence. It wasn’t much— it couldn’t be much, not in her mortal body. But it was potent. With the magic already present, hovering in the air so thick he could practically _taste_ it— it would be enough.

 

Dalish hadn’t even done him the curtesy of acting surprised when he started, cornered her and begun to explain that he had a near-endless pool of power. Just raised an eyebrow and asked if he was a mage. He’d said no— Old God’s were far and away something else, after all. ‘That makes two of us,’ she’d replied. Bull had laughed.

 

Did all his boys suspect something? It must have been that one giant fight; he’d been a little _enthusiastic_ about arm wrestling the thing into submission. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was simply glad for the Charger’s loyalty. Someday soon, he’d take them aside and tell them the truth— scaly and all too _Tevinter_ for his tastes as it was. Better they find out from him than anyone else.

 

“Go get ‘em, bronto.” He finished the words with a push, sending her stumbling beside the other mages. To his eye, she positively glowed with power, radiating it out. It was old magic, too— slow and mighty as a mountain. The rebels moved slightly, unconsciously giving her a wide berth. Bull hid a frown. Had he given her too much? He shook his head, horns tracing a figure eight through the air. It was too late to worry over it now— what’s done is done.

 

Soon, the Herald and her Dread Wolf stepped into the ruins of the temple, the Hands of the Divine trailing in their wake. Lavellan walked slowly, steps laced with resolve, into the center of the square. Her silence was still as a lake in the dead of winter, cold and motionless. Solas stopped a few feet behind her. It was in deference, even if the wolf did not yet realize it. His silence could not lie. Bull let out a low chuckle, amused despite himself. How many gods would Lavellan have brought to heel by the end of this? She seemed to have a knack for it.

 

Solas’ gaze swept over the rebels, assessing. In that moment, Iron Bull saw what he had once been— a commander, fierce and bright. What could have brought him so low?

 

The wolf did a double take when he saw Dalish, shock filling his silence.

 

Well, shit. Bull really shouldn’t have counted on Solas’ continued obliviousness. It seemed that in a mortal, the Dread Wolf could sense his presence. Perhaps it was a side effect of his powers…

 

Tentatively, Bull stretched out his blanketing silence, cocooning Dalish in quiet. Solas reared back and blinked, making an aborted motion to grab his staff. He stared as if a mystery had vanished before his very eyes. Bull smothered a grin.

 

Solas wouldn’t leave it at that— it wasn’t in his nature, curious and relentless in equal measure— but it would stall him for now. Especially when Lavellan began to march forward, moving into the heart of the Breach. In her wake, Solas raised his staff, a general in tattered robes.

 

“Mages! Focus your energy on the Herald!” As one, fifty arms rose, and with them, a sea of magic erupted through the square. It whirled, strong as a tempest. In it, Bull could feel his own power, the ocean floor to the cresting waves of newer magic. Lavellan pushed her hand up, and the water _moved_ , crashing against the Breach.

 

For a moment, the tear endured— held fast against the assault. Bull narrowed his eyes, massive shoulders shifting. He would directly step in, should it be needed.

 

But it was not. In a flash, the Breach gave way, collapsing under the weight of power. The Herald closed her palm, pale fingers snapping shut against the green glow. The key, brilliant and perfect, fit neatly into the lock. With a twist, the Veil was sealed.

 

It was done.

 

A backlash of energy snapped from the sky in a crash; the sound was mind-numbingly loud, and Bull shuddered under the screech of magic.

 

The sky was whole once more. The Veil was in place. The Herald was hale— even in the face of this, she had not fallen. A stillness fell over the courtyard, over the world. Then, slowly and naturally, noise flowed back into the world. A roar split the night, the exuberance of a hundred voices thrown into the air, and celebrations began.

 

Bull let out a great _whoosh_ of breath and clapped a hand on Dalish. The woman was panting, exhaustion showing in the way she leaned on her staff. Sorry, _walking stick_.

 

“Good work.” He couldn’t help the pride and warmth filling his voice— not many could have held his power, even for so short a time. Hell, his last Conductor had barely managed it, and it had _changed_ him. The man hadn’t been quite mortal ever since— not that it had mattered, in the end. Dead was dead. Three thousand years couldn’t change that.

 

Bull led Dalish back to the town, carefully avoiding Solas’ gaze. It was not difficult— the wolf was staring at the Herald. Bull didn’t know what he saw there— and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, from that expression. The last vestiges of Old magic clinging to Dalish were easily absorbed. He’d keep an eye, for the next few days. Watch for any effects. She was one of his boys; he would protect what was his.

 

He just hoped she wouldn’t grow horns— they wouldn’t go with the whole rogue look.

 

Dancing filled the streets of Haven, merriment filled the air, and happiness filled the hearts of the Inquisition. Bull took shelter from the noise in the company of the Chargers, in their familiar silence. The tavern was loud but bearable with them. After a last look— more than skin deep, examining her core for changes—Bull propped Dalish up in a corner. An ever-silent Grim took up a quiet vigil next to her.

 

With a dragon’s smile on his face, Bull set about drinking each and every one of them under the table. Krem grew cleverer— and more insubordinate— with each beer. Bull responded in kind, and soon they were sniping insults back and forth. Four cups after tipsy, Sera stumbled over, sitting next to Bull.

 

“Bull, Bull, I got an idea.”

 

“All right, hit me.” She scrunched her forehead, but obligingly hit him. Bull grunted—he supposed he _had_ asked for it. “That… wasn’t exactly what I meant. But solid punch.”

 

“That’s what you said, innit?” Behind her, Krem was laughing helplessly into his glass, leaning against Grim for support. “Can I tell you er what?”

 

“Yeah, come on, shoot.” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

 

“No bow.” She squinted at him. “What’s with you and asking to be hit, yeah? I ain’t into that rubbish.” Bull threw his head back and laughed, horns scraping into the wood behind him.

 

“Sera. What is it?” He fought to suppress rumbling chuckles.

 

“Next time we fight the baddies, I ride on your shoulders— you run, I shoot.”

 

Well. That hadn’t been what he was expecting. But, oh, the _chaos_.

 

“Hmm. You standing or sitting?”

 

Sera snorted. “Sit on your own horns, I stand.”

 

“Right, sorry. So, we’d be like a mobile siege platform.” He let out a thoughtful noise. “Yeah... this could work.”

 

“It’ll be great, all wham bham, and the baddies are down!” Sera nodded, excited as a puppy, before letting out a loud exclamation and waving Flissa over. Bull winced at the sharp sound, and turned away, half an ear tuned to the happy babbling. He didn’t hear much— just something about ice cream and beer.

 

Krem raised his brows, shooting Bull a resigned look.

 

“Remind me to be far away when you try that, Chief.”

 

“What, don’t think it can work?”

 

“Remember when you skewered enemies on your horns?” Krem remarked, voice wry. Bull winced— the ‘vints hadn’t died quickly, and they had _flailed_. It wasn’t a fond memory.

 

“Right. That didn’t work so well. With the squirming.” Bull shuddered.

 

On his left, Grim let out an affirmative grunt— Bull took that as a sign he agreed. Others had trouble with Grim’s quiet— for Bull, it was refreshing, a welcome silence among the chaos of his boys.

 

The tavern filled with the raucous noise of celebration and the Chargers continued drinking. Bull sat back, content to watch the celebration folding out around him. For a brief, effervescent moment, Bull let himself be happy.

 

And then he heard that discordant _sound._ The hiss of corruption, strong and close. And with it, something else— a feeling he couldn’t quite identify, familiar and old and wrong all at the same time. He sat up straight, a flash of power flushing the alcohol out of his system. Krem looked up at his sudden movement. Whatever he saw in Bull’s face made him sit to attention.

 

“Krem, get the boys sober, _now_. Protect the villagers.” Bull pulled his bulk up and grabbed his axe from the wall it had been leaning against. The Chargers had begun to stir, shaking their heads and moving into line. Trusting them to his lieutenant, Bull pulled Sera up. “Get your bow, Sera.”

 

“Wha’ zit?”

 

“We have company.” That was when the drums— and the pound of thousands of armored feet— became audible.

 

The celebration died quickly— the screaming saw to that. Bull ran outside, axe in hand. The mountainside was awash in a red glow, the pulse of _blight_ bright against the night. A thin shiver of fear flashed up his spine, and he ran through Haven, dodging hysterical refugees. Falling into step behind Lavellan and Cassandra, he rushed to the gates. Cullen was standing there, marshaling troops and looking as grim as Bull had ever seen the man.

 

“Cullen?” Cassandra’s voice was almost lost in the clamor of feet, but even through the noise Bull could still hear a hint of fear.

 

“One watch-guard reporting. It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.” Bull paused— only one? There had to have been at least a dozen out there, considering Red was involved.

 

“Under what banner?” Josephine’s question would have been a perfectly fine one, if Bull hadn’t felt the corruption behind the doors. There would be no banner— the blight didn’t need one.

 

“None.”

 

“None?” Josephine’s voice was incredulous.

 

There was a pounding at the wooden doors, loud even against the stomping of feet.

 

“I can’t come in unless you open.” The Herald moved to open the gates, and Bull followed close, axe at the ready.

 

A man was on the other side, quiet and lethal. Bull narrowed his eyes. This was no man— a spirit? His sound was strange, ethereal and scattered.

 

“I’m Cole, I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know that.”

 

Way to state the obvious, kid.

 

“What is this, what’s going on?” Lavellan’s voice was demanding, frantic.

 

“The templars come to kill you.” Templars? They didn’t sound like templars— templars were the chimes of small bells. This was closer to the sound of blighted teeth through flesh. Something was very wrong.

 

“Is this the order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?” Cullen moved forward, restless and angry. The spirit moved back, skittish.

 

“The red templars went to the Elder One. You know him, he knows you. You took his mages. There—” The spirit pointed up.“He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

 

On the hill— too close for comfort— stood a perversion of a man. He was tall as Bull, long and spindly with the tatters of robes hanging from his frame. Shards of red lyrium sprouted from his head, a hideous simulacrum of plant growth. Bull could hear the corruption pouring off him, blighted and discordant.

 

Shock— bright as a noon day sun— filled The Iron Bull. Because he _knew_ that face. Even fractured by red lyrium, mauled and disfigured, he knew that face. He had last seen it broken and bloodied, eyes glassy and so _silent_. His Conductor had been lifeless as the rest of his Choir, their bodies strew like trash across a marble floor.

 

_Sethius._

 

 

 

The battle that followed was a blur— the Templars burned in his hearing, painful and corrosive. Bull had the Herald’s back— would for the rest of her mortal life— but right now, his axe moved on sheer muscle memory alone. More than a few blows had extra force behind them— his power was far from cooperative at the moment, lashing out in his anger and shock. His axe became his claws, his growl a torrent of fire, and enemies fell before his blows with more speed than ever before.

 

He cleaved a Templar clean in half at one point, neck to hip. The monster— no longer a man, not with the stone growing behind his eyes— screeched and dropped to the ground. The sound was easily swallowed in his silence. Bull did not spare him another thought, but the Herald— the Herald _saw_. Something in her eyes went suspicious.

 

The trebuchets were their only chance, the only way to strike back at the veritable hoard coming down on them. And Bull thought that would work, for a moment. But then there was a roar, loud and bone-shaking.

 

The dragon was a surprise. Bull felt a little life return to him at the sight. What he wouldn’t give to meet its claws with his own—

 

But then he heard the blight, cacophonous and pulsing through the creature. He shuddered. No, he wanted nothing to do with that dragon. If the blight got into him— infected his blood— he didn’t know how to cut it out. Didn’t know if he could.

 

They fought their way back to the chantry, saving as many of Haven’s townspeople as they could along the way— Bull saw Sera drag Flissa out of the burning tavern, cursing up a storm with bow in hand and the Chargers at her back. Relief coursed through him, and he drove his axe into a red templar, shattering the lyrium spiking out of it. He bared his teeth at the enemies flooding the square, and spun in a whirlwind of movement, momentum and anger crushing the templars around him.

 

For a moment, silence fell in the clearing, broken only by the harsh panting of the Herald’s company. For the first time since that _sight,_ Bull registered who that included— Dorian and Cassandra. The Seeker was blood spattered, but hale. She looked resolute, if grim.

 

The mage was looking the worse for wear; his chocolatey skin was pale and he leaned against his staff more than held it. Shit, Bull hadn’t realized the man was with them or he’d have disrupted the templar abilities more— even corrupted by red lyrium, they were effective.

 

He’d let himself be sloppy. It was lucky it hadn’t cost them more. He shook his head to clear it— Sethius could wait. Their survival could not.

 

“Into the chantry, now.” Lavellan hustled them inside, and Bull took the back, keeping a keen eye behind them.

 

When everyone was inside, Bull slammed the doors of the chantry shut and pressed his bulk against it. They would hold— he would make them hold. He turned half an ear to the discussion taking place behind him.

 

“I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” The spirit shifted as it spoke, words twisting through the air.

 

Bull let out a growl, low and rumbling, and the spirit hopped back slightly. Bull didn’t care what it revealed— that was not one of his siblings. Even corrupted, even _dead_ , Razikale was more magnificent than that shadow of a dragon. “That’s not an archdemon.”

 

“Bull?” The Herald questioned, surprise filling her silence. “Have you seen an archdemon before?”

 

“Depends on when you are asking.” The Herald narrowed his eyes at his answer. Bull disregarded the suspicion. As it is now, it was unlikely the Inquisition would survive. “But it _is_ just a dragon. Blighted, by the sound of it.”

 

Cullen interjected. “I don’t care what it looks like, it’s cut a path for that army.”

 

“Wait!” The chancellor’s voice was weak, tremulous. “There is a path. You would not know it, unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me, Andraste must have shown me so I could tell you.” The man trailed off, hand gesturing more and more weakly in the air. Bull eyed the wound in his side— the man did not have long to live.

 

But the chance at an escape, a path through desolation. That was worth any price. It was an escape for The Iron Bull, even— his blood stirred in fright at the feel of the blight. He could not risk corruption.

 

He studiously ignored the memory of Sethius, abominable in tattered robes.

 

The spirit spoke then, addressing Bull. “Your silence will keep them safe. Walk the path, help them.”

 

Silence did fall, then.

 

Bull looked at the boy, ignoring the burning stares of the Herald and Cullen. “My silence?”

 

“Large as an ocean, deep, dark, no templars can hear through that. _He_ cannot hear through— was never able, couldn’t sing the way he wanted, the way that would please you.” The spirit’s voice was breathy, ethereal, and deeply unnerving.

 

Well, shit. Bull didn’t even want to try unpacking that right now.

 

“Alright, kid.” He turned to Lavellan. “I’ll get them to safety.”

 

She appraised him, considering. “What is he talking about?”

 

“Remember the whole dragon thing? I wasn’t lying.” Her eyebrows raised, high across her brow. The effect— highlighted by the vallasin— was almost comic.

 

“You weren’t lying… when you said you were a dragon? In my experience, dragons aren’t exactly silent. And their horns are bigger.” Her voice was wry, but there was a hint of steel in her eyes.

 

“He’ll tell you— he’s wanted to, wanted to be honest and stop hiding— but later later. The Elder One is coming.” The spirit truly could read his mind. Bull growled at it— Cole did not flinch this time. He must be losing his edge.

 

“You aren’t helping, kid.” Bull turned his eyes to Lavellan, meeting her grim gaze steadily. He was an Old God, a dragon of silence and power— he shouldn’t want to shift restlessly. But he valued her trust. “Boss, I—”

 

“It is okay Bull. I trust you.” She looked out over the Inquisition, scattered and cast aside. Pilgrims, soldiers, refugees— people who wanted to believe in something. Bull felt her silence grow still. “You’ll need a distraction. I’ll go. Cullen, Bull, get them out.”

 

Cullen started, mouth opening and closing a few times before he eventually spoke. “But what of your escape?”

 

Lavellan turned to the door and did not respond. There was no fear in her.

 

“Perhaps, perhaps you will surprise it. Find a way.” Cullen’s tone was hesitant. If the commander believed those words, Bull would eat his horns. But hope was hard to find, and he appreciated the effort, at least.

 

Bull looked at the Herald. She was resolute, strong and ready to fall if it meant saving her people. A true leader. He would not do her the disservice of letting them die, even if it meant revealing himself.

 

But he also would not let _her_ die. The mark was strong— it was likely with her death, it would anchor her to this world. Should she not return— should she die fighting _him_ — Bull would find her, dead or alive.

 

“Give ‘em hell, Boss.” He clapped her on the shoulder as he spoke, grey skin stark against her white armor. Not that it was truly white anymore— too much blood and lyrium had sprayed across it, dulling the clean lines of the snowy leather.

 

She just nodded, ever stalwart. The doors shut behind her with a clash of finality— Bull let the noise ring through his silence.

 

Bull let himself stare at the old wood paneling the door. It would not hold against a dragon. Neither would she. He turned to address the commander. “Cullen, you taught your scouts hand signs, yeah? Use them. It is going to get quiet.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

Bull didn’t respond, but Cole did— “His silence is loud. Nothing comes out. It will surround us, save us— the middle won’t notice. Most people won’t notice. It is too loud.”

 

Cullen looked uneasy but nodded grimly. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry. Move!”

 

Nothing like imminent death to help speed along acceptance.

 

Bull rolled his shoulders, working the tension out of his form. This Avatar suddenly felt too tight, too small. He _itched_ , the need to stretch his wings out running through him. A low thrum of power was gathering around him, rolling around his throat like a chain. A charge began to fill the air, small sparks shooting off the metal of his axe.

 

The Iron Bull let his silence loose for the first time in three thousand years, and the chantry fell quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

Down the path, the Dread Wolf let out a shudder. Snow fell gently across slim shoulders, and he turned his gaze behind him. Power had come— settled over him like a blanket, enveloping and familiar. The silence fell like a cape over his shoulders— it spoke of the smoke of battlefields and putrid scent of burning flesh. It spoke of journeys to the Forgotten ones— his enemies, his friends. It spoke of war.

 

His eyes— bright and finally knowing— looked back.

 

_Dumat._

 

 


	4. The Voice of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elven mythology is now also being fiddled with, because nothing is sacred (pun fully intended). 
> 
> As always, the comments are appreciated. :)

_The High Priest, Conductor of the Choir of Silence, ruled_  
_Above all the Dreamers of the Imperium. Wisest_  
_And most powerful of the Magisters Sidereal_  
_In his dreams, he alone heard the voice of Silence._

_-Canticle of Silence 1:5-1:10_

 

 

 

When Bull heard her silence— resolute and terrified and shaken— hours after the destruction of Haven, he felt a wave of relief. Lavellan was alive.

 

It didn’t take long to find her— one word to Cullen and the commander was racing in the correct direction, boots heavy on the packed snow. The Herald was weak and shaking from the cold, bleeding and scrapped from her encounter with Sethius, but alive. She staggered forward, standing upright only long enough to see the camp. At the sight of the Inquisition— battered and bruised but still there— she collapsed to the ground.

 

Bull had yet again underestimated her. He’d need to stop doing that sometime soon.

 

Cullen pulled her up, slender body almost doll-like against his human frame, hollering out orders for blankets and shelter. Bull moved to help, reaching to lift the Herald from the commander’s arms.

 

The tremble in Cullen’s hands stopped him, however. His knuckles were white as the powdery snow around them, clenched hard on the tough leather of the Herald’s arm brace. There was reverence there, in his frame.

 

The combat-hardened man looked like he had seen the resurrection of a god. Bull supposed he wasn’t much wrong. Gods were made, after all, not born.

 

Bull moved back, letting the commander bear his faith— and his burden— towards the relative safety of the camp. The scattered tents would do little against an army, but they’d help against the cold, and Lavellan’s ears had taken on a disturbing blue tone.

 

As soon as they set foot in the circle of torchlight, Solas stepped forward. His eyes were fixed on the Herald, soft and shaken. Magic— the delicate green glow of healing— was already spreading from his hands and across Lavellan’s still form. Bull felt himself relax slightly, tension easing out of him. He was confident in the wolf’s skill at healing. It was a damn good thing he was here, because Bull was a poor healer. Bull didn’t feel the cold, never had. His stomach was a furnace of dragon fire— no chill could touch him. In the past, he’d never given a rat’s ass about learning to heal a mortal’s injury— he had priests to do that. He’d come to regret that, both back then and now.

 

The movement of his shoulders must have caught Solas’ attention, as the mage’s gaze snapped up to Bull. His eyes were dark over the glow of his magic. He looked like a spirit, haunting and ghost-like. There was an inescapable knowing in that look.

 

Resigned, the Iron Bull fell back a few steps. The wolf would heal Lavellan, if he wasn’t done already. She was nowhere near death, strong and hale as she had been. She would survive. The Inquisition would survive.

 

Bull just wasn’t sure his _cover_ would survive. The Herald would doubtless have questions, as would Cullen. Solas did not have questions, Bull knew. The Dread Wolf already had his answers. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t seek Bull out, of course. He fully expected to be cornered by his old friend in no time.

 

Bull would have to decide what to tell them. The truth usually worked best, but he wasn’t sure how well it would go over, now, what with the whole our-enemy-is-my-old-priest thing. He doubted Cullen or Josephine would take it well. Red at least was smart and would understand the advantage— his advantage, the vast and soul deep understanding he had of Sethius. That kind of inside knowledge would be invaluable.

 

Lavellan— though he counted her a friend—was an unknown. Prejudice ran deep in mortals and too many believed the stories of the blight— of his whispers, callous and tempting. Zeal could cloud their judgement as easily as fear.

 

Never mind the fact he was the Dragon of _Silence_ , not petty muttering.

 

Ankle deep in snow— thigh deep, for everyone else— Bull paced around the perimeter of the camp, keeping his eyes peeled for red templars. Night had long since fallen, leaving the mountain before him lit only by starlight. It was habit, more than anything, to check for enemies. The same habit that had him cataloging ten ways to kill every person he met.

 

Walking also kept him mind calm, and he needed that peace right now. He needed to drive the shock and confusion of seeing _Sethius_ out, pack it away neatly into a corner of his mind. He’d deal with it when they were safe— maybe get Blackwall to hit him. A few solid hits would really do the trick. The man had the muscle for it, not to mention some repressed guilt of his own to work out. His silence rung with it.

 

Maybe twenty paces away stood Cole, tattered armor fluttering around him. The spirit had taken to following him, stuck to him like a burr since the escape from Haven. Only once had he drifted close enough to speak, quiet and piercing. That had been discomforting, to say the least— the spirit knew too much and spoke too readily about it. His words could not fix Bull, could not erase the loss he felt deep in his horns, in his chest.

 

After that first attempt— after Bull had _remembered_ — Cole had stayed at a distance. He was always within the loose ring of Bull’s silence, though. Bull found it curious but was too distracted to think on it much.

 

He had long since retracted the blanket of his silence, coiling it back around him like a serpent.

 

Its presence had let them slip away, quiet as mice, just as Cole had predicted. Sethius hadn’t noticed, had let them escape in the wake of the avalanche. Bull tried to ignore the sting that caused. 

 

In fact, most people hadn’t noticed his silence. It was a mortal thing, to ignore what you couldn’t understand.

 

There were a few exceptions, and each one had amused Bull. Dalish had looked directly at her Captain and rolled her eyes, cheeky as you please, as soon as he’d let silence fall. He’d never hear the end of this from the boys. Dorian had noticed something too—glancing over his shoulder, face painted with traces of confusion. Somehow, the ‘Vint managed to keep looking imperious. What Bull wouldn’t give to ruin that haughty expression—

 

A thought for another time, he told himself. Still, Bull had been surprised. He raised his estimation of the mage’s skills a notch.

 

Vivienne had felt it, but that was no shock— Madam de Fer was in a league of her own. Bull was just glad she couldn’t see his involvement.

 

Solas though— he had looked at Bull, eyes _knowing._ Bull couldn’t bring himself to mind— millennia ago, the wolf had been an enemy and brother, dear as a dagger to the heart. He had known then that it wouldn’t take long for Solas to approach him, and he was right— in his pacing, he heard the soft fall of footsteps. The Dread Wolf was behind him, stalking his every move.

 

“A word?” The wolf’s voice was clear, almost amused. Bull nodded, a behemoth motion of shaking horns, and slowed his pace slightly. He still kept his senses alert— horns up, as always.

 

But most of his attention was focused on his old friend. “Hey, what’s going on?”

 

“I have journeyed deep into the memories of the fade, watched battles and wars and strife. I have also lived them— I have seen beings old and fearsome in war and in peace. They are always mighty, always terrible. Rarely do they walk among men. I had not thought to find an Old God here, among mortals.” Solas paused, sparing a glance at Cole. The spirit had dropped out of earshot, but not out of the ring of silence. Solas seemed to come to a decision, and power stirred behind his eyes. “Let alone you, Dumat.”

 

Dramatic as always.

 

Bull huffed out a laugh, letting a spark of fire fly with his amusement for the first time in years. The flames licked the air in front of him, playful. “Took you long enough, little wolf.”

 

“My senses have not been as… sharp, of late.” The admission seemed to leave Solas in a rush. “I apologize for not recognizing you, old friend.”

 

That sentence alone was telling. Bull gave the wolf a hard look, eye narrowing. Solas seemed reticent, shoulders curled ever so slightly inwards. It was an old tell, one Bull had almost forgotten to look for. Defensive, readying for a blow, it was a painful thing to see in Solas.

 

Bull didn’t care— couldn’t care. He had to understand the changes to Thedas to discover what had driven corruption into his siblings. He needed to know how Sethius had survived. He needed to protect the Chargers. He needed to _know_. Who better to tell him than another god of the old world?

 

“What happened?”

 

The curl of Solas’ shoulders increased, and pale hands clenched on the wood of his staff. “I would rather not discuss it.”

 

Bull let out a snort. “Really? After a thousand years of friendship, that is all you can say? Do better. Something happened, wolf, something that stripped you bare. Tell me.”

 

Solas bristled, eyes bright. “If you knew how difficult it was to speak of, you too would hesitate. I lost everything.”

 

A low growl slipped out of Bull’s throat. He paid it no mind, a burst of anger flaring through him. _How dare he._

 

“You think I don’t know what it is to lose everything? I woke, after three thousand years of slumber to my siblings dead and corrupted. I was chained in a damn cage, forced into sleep. I couldn’t do anything.” His horns shook, tearing the sky. “You think I don’t know difficult?”

 

There was a moment, broken only by the gentle descent of puffy white flakes. Bull plowed through the dense layer of snow even as Solas seemed to dance above it.

 

“I apologize. That was uncalled for.” The wolf let out a smile, old and wry and weary. “I forgot, for a moment, who I was speaking to. What I was speaking to. For what it is worth, I know nothing of the blight, or how it came to seek out your pantheon.”

 

“It’s fine.” Damn, Bull had hoped he’d know something. He felt the anger drain from him.

 

“I do not wish to speak of it. But.” A pause. “I owe you answers. If you want to know, I will tell you some of the tale. The Evanuris are sealed away, locked behind the doors of their own eluvians. I do not know if they survived the separation. The elvhen people certainly did not.”

 

Bull eyed Solas, a suspicion growing in the back of his mind. Few, if any, could get the drop on the Evanuris or work such great feats of magic. Few, except for the one who had fought them for centuries. He kept quiet, letting his silence speak for him. Solas let out a chocking laugh, the sound brittle over the blanket of snow.

 

“You have not lost your ability to remain silent, my friend. Or hold such judgement in it.” A bald head tipped back, and the wolf stared up at the stars, flakes of snow falling across his face. Bull thought he looked damn sad, but really, he had no ground to stand on.

 

“It was I, who sealed them. I made the Veil, pulled apart the fade and the waking world.”

 

Bull froze, muscles tensing. That had _not_ been what he expected to hear.

 

“Wait, hold your god-damn nugs. You made _that_? You better have a good reason. It makes my horns itch.” Bull tilted his chin up at the sky, horns sweeping backwards. The tips may have well torn the sky for as high in the passes as they were. He let out a grunt, and his brow furrowed. He did not remember the Veil— but he did not remember much of the time around his sleep. What it had done, he could not distinguish from the winds of change sweeping Thedas, bright and unforgiving.

 

Perhaps he should have paid it more attention, though.

 

“Yes.” Anguish crept into Solas’ voice. “But it was a mistake. I destroyed the elves, shortened their lives and cut them off from magic. I _diminished_ them. The cities crumbled, Vir Dirthara just collapsed.”

 

Solas turned his eyes towards Bull, and he shook with the devastation he saw there.

 

“I destroyed everything. It cast a pall over all of Thedas, a blanket across all magic. The world has never been the same.”

 

“Why risk that? Last I heard, your rebellion was going strong.”

 

“They killed her.” His voice was feather soft, but heartbreakingly sad. “They killed Mythal. They could not bear her kindness, her desire to treat the people _right._ She was an obstacle because of her wisdom. They murdered her in cold blood.” The wolf’s gaze, originally soft and piercing, hardened into dragon-scale. “In a rage, I sealed them away.” He dragged careful fingers across the air, and the Veil swirled around them. Bull reared back but said nothing— no words could ease that wound.

 

So, the wolf had torn his own people to shreds. No wonder his silence rang so clearly— guilt was the strongest sound.

 

The Iron Bull knew that feeling and knew it well. His slumber— the cursed pall that had overcome him, knocked him from the air and into dreams— had allowed his siblings to be taken. Their deaths were in his talons. 

 

When he found the one responsible, they would not meet a quick death.

 

Solas did not linger with him after that, and Bull was glad for it. In the wake of the Dread Wolf— in the wake of a _reminder_ — it was much harder to ignore the image of Sethius. The image was discordant, the bitter abomination a far cry from the man he had first met some three thousand years ago.

 

‘Eager’ would have been the first word Bull used to describe him, alit by glowing orbs of magic and painted with his own zeal. It was the first word Bull had thought, after the man had snuck into the inner sanctum of the temple, risking the wrath of an Old God for a chance at praise.

 

_Eager, aren’t you?_

 

He hadn’t spoken it, of course— he had yet to break his silence. Sethius hadn’t understood the crystal quiet then. In retrospect, he never really had.

 

The man had been a talented mage, even in Old Tevinter. Skilled, devoted, and so willing to please. Powerful too, though that was a given— no one broke into the Temple of Silence without power. Everything an Old God should look for in a priest. And Bull— no, not Bull, _Dumat,_ old and wise and so foolish— had snapped him up. Sethius had been whisked into Dumat’s care, into his Choir, and into a grim future.

 

Silence had never come easily to him, until the end. Death always brought a permanent silence, bittersweet and yet so clear.

 

Or so Bull had thought. A sigh rattled his horns, fluttered through his lips, and was devoured in the mountain air.

 

At least he had been right— the Elder One was _much_ younger than him.

 

“He tried to find you, when you slept.” Bull turned to Cole, unable to summon a modicum of humanity into his gaze.

 

“Did he?” The words were hard to get out, rumbling through his throat like rocks.

 

“Yes. He worshipped you. Loved your silence, even if he did not understand it. But then he was dead and you were gone, and he couldn’t _understand_.”

 

Bull’s hand clenched, gray knuckles pressing into white. After a moment, the tension left him, swept away by a chill winter breeze.

 

“Thanks, kid.”

 

“Did I help? I can’t tell, it’s too quiet.”

 

“You did.” Bull shook himself, took a deep breath, and let out a war cry. His silence parted, moved to let the sound echo off the nearby cliffside. Sounds of alarm rose up from the camp behind him.

 

“Yeah, I feel better.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lavellan healed quickly and wasted no time in hunting Bull down. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Two days after their escape— one after her rescue— the Herald approached him on the march. Bull had been bringing up the rear, content to protect the stragglers. Many in the Inquisition were not soldiers, not used to a quick march in harsh conditions. But tough times called for tougher skin— there had been no complaints.

 

At the sight of the Herald, however, he quickened his pace. The people needed to see her, to follow her forward into the mountains and eventual victory. A nudge to Krem had the boys dropping back to protect the rear.

 

“About Haven.”

 

What a way to start this conversation.

 

Bull scratched the back of his head, a heavy movement of gray muscle. Lavellan was tiny in front of him, barely up to his chest and nowhere near as bulky, but her presence was huge— being the figure of devotion would do that to you.

 

“Yeah, I figured that’s why you’d cornered me. What do you want to know?”

 

Lavellan shifted, eyes never leaving him. She had the same, gentle, curious air she donned when asking after Seheron. Bull wasn’t fooled, though— there was steel there.

 

“What happened back there? Are you really a dragon?” Her voice raised on the last question, incredulous. Bull felt an itch in his shoulder blades.

 

“Oh yeah, a huge one. Horns the size of a great sword.”

 

“As I don’t see any scales, you are going to have to be a little more specific. Be serious, Bull. What exactly do you mean?”

 

“Boss, Thedas is a crazy place. There are more things out there than Qunari, elves, and men— I’m one of them.” He shrugged. “That is really all there is to it.”

 

He felt a small twinge of guilt at the misdirection. But she’d be better off— the Inquisition would be better off— without knowing there was an Old God in their midst.

 

“That cannot be all. Why did you join the Inquisition?”

 

Bull huffed out a laugh. “Did you see the giant hole in the sky? Mortals aren’t the only ones worried about it. I was in the area and thought I could lend a hand.”

 

Lavellan raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But she also seemed content to drop the subject. Bull felt a flash of gratitude— it wasn’t often people knew when not to push.

 

“You can take on a Qunari form?”

 

“Magic ran strong in my nest— my siblings can do it too. It’s how I hid us from S— the Elder One.” A close slip. He wasn’t sure he was quite ready to let loose that information, even if he planned to tip them off to what the Elder One was. Names were powerful things, after all. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around, though— won’t do morale any good to find out a dragon watches the Herald’s back.”

 

“I don’t know, I think I might find it comforting to have something to match that monster we saw in Haven.” She paused, voice wry. “Horns and all. How exactly did you hide us?”

 

Bull hummed, low and rumbling. He needed to phrase this carefully. A flash of inspiration hit him, and he grinned. The rogue would appreciate this. “What makes an assassin good?”

 

Lavellan started at first but seemed willing to play along. “Stealth. When their target doesn’t see them coming, they are most likely to be successful.”

 

“Exactly. And as long as you stay out of someone’s line of sight, what’s the thing mostly likely to tip a target off?”

 

Comprehension dawned on her face. “Sound. So, what, you just made them all really quiet?”

 

Bull grinned, pleased. “Pretty much, yeah.”

 

“Why didn’t people notice?”

 

“Most people can’t hear a silence. Some noticed, though. Madam Vivienne sensed something. So did Dorian. The rest?” Bull shrugged, gray skin flexing idly. Really, mortals could be so blind. Well, deaf, in this case. “Too much shit going on their head and coming out of their mouths. Even back in the Qun, that was true.”

 

Lavellan seemed to have trouble accepting this, brow quirked quizzically. “So, they just, don’t know?”

 

A smile crept up Bull’s face at her bemusement. “Weird, right?”

 

The Herald shook her head, disbelieving but accepting. Bull didn’t bother to suppress a low chuckle at her expression. He was, as always, surprised by this indominable mortal— nothing fazed her, and she carried so little prejudice. She would accept this, he could tell— and she would use it, use him to further the Inquisition’s cause. The Inquisition would shake the world, under her guidance.

 

Which is why Bull had to tell her.

 

“More importantly, Boss.”

 

Lavellan cut in, eyebrow raised. “More important than you being an actual dragon, you mean?” Bull’s smile widened, growing toothy at the quip.

 

“Hard to believe, right? But it’s true.” He let the mirth drain from his face and inhaled carefully.

 

“That Elder One. I know who he is.”

 

 


End file.
